Your dad’s just old-school, his mum used to say gently. He’s not very good at showing his emotions. But he loves us. He was never sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

Theo knows he shouldn’t be surprised his dad hasn’t revealed anything. After his mum died Theo had tried talking about her, but his dad had refused to be drawn. Burying his grief under even more layers of bitterness and anger, like a well-cooked lasagne.

And now this. This extra mystery. The two dead bodies in a Wiltshire garden more than two hundred miles away. And the words Find Her in his father’s sprawling handwriting.

It finally hits him that he’ll never get answers from his dad. It’s been too many years. Too many unanswered questions. He’s just going to have to do some digging of his own.

But where to start? he thinks later, much later, after his shift at the restaurant has ended. Jen is fast asleep upstairs but he is still buzzing. His body is dog tired, his feet ache after standing up all evening, but his mind is too active and he can’t switch off.

Google, he thinks. He’ll start there.

He goes to his laptop, which lives on the dining-room table in their two-bedroom Victorian terrace, the glow of the screen the only light in the room. It reflects back at him from the French windows that lead to the garden.

He starts off typing in ‘Saffron Cutler’. A few articles pop up about the bodies found in her garden, but nothing that wasn’t in the cutting on his dad’s desk. He continues scrolling. Lots of news stories from someone called Euan Cutler, who writes for one of the red tops. Rose Grey is also a dead end – he has no clue which of the many Rose Greys could be the one referred to in the article he found.

Then he types in his father’s name.

A number of entries pop up. His dad is a very eminent man. It takes Theo a while to sift through it all, and he almost gives up. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find. There’s a page detailing his long and successful medical career and then he notices another article about a private practice set up in 1974. It’s accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photo of his much younger father standing with another man at some black-tie do. He peers more closely at the screen. There is a caption underneath: Practice partner Larry Knight. That’s strange, thinks Theo. As far as he’s aware his dad never had a partner at the small private clinic he used to run, and which he sold when he retired six years ago.